


Cover Up Your Soul

by asemic



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Facial Shaving, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-21
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-25 15:10:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14381277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asemic/pseuds/asemic
Summary: Jacob shaves Pratt and dispenses some wisdom.





	Cover Up Your Soul

“Lean your head back.” He saw the flicker of hesitation and tapped the box. That did the trick, Pratt's head snapped back over the chair. “I feel insulted. You don't like following my direct orders anymore?”

He didn't give a shit if he answered. Seemed like Pratt understood and remained silent as Jacob stropped his blade. “You look terrified, like I'm gonna slit your throat from ear-to-ear.” He paused and tapped the clip point of his knife against Pratt's forehead, metal glinting in the leaf-filtered sunlight. “I wouldn't dare consider such a thing. And neither would you.”

Jacob shrugged and cupped the top of Pratt's greasy, unkempt hair. “I think we need to establish a regimented grooming standard for you. I don't want the men to think I've slipped.” He held the knife over his neck and Pratt tensed, the muscles in his throat becoming stretched ropes. “Hey, hey, hey. Relax for me, unless you really want me to chew your skin up.” 

He made a soothing sound and Pratt's loosened slightly. Jacob nodded, his hand hovering steady. He started to scrape away his beard with short motions. “What do you really have waiting for you out there? Family? You got someone crying into your pillow right now?” He worked the curve of his Adam's apple then pulled the knife back. “Well? Enlighten me, Pratt.”

“My parents.” He said it in a clipped tone. Pratt squeezed his eyes together like he was reaching for them, struggling to grasp the figures that broke into smoke when he touched them. When they opened he met Jacob's gaze with a hardness he never saw from him. Jacob recognized the look: pure fucking hatred. He got it from the Resistance, from the goddamn Deputy, from the people who stepped over him when he buffeted his weary bones against a building. 

From his reflection after he came home. 

After. 

Always had to be after. He learned to not work in the before. Jacob ran his thumb along the edge of the knife. Everything he did, one event after another was a long march forward no matter how many times his mind tried to suck him back. He needed to continue along that road, find the rhythm, walk in time. Focus. 

“You'll get through it, Pratt. That emptiness.” He tilted Pratt's jaw to the side, broke that bitter look. “You need to feed on it, take that hollow and chew it like meat until it disappears. You hate me; I'm glad. That means you've still got something in you.”

Pratt fisted the fabric of his pants, gripped his knuckles white. “When are you going to take that from me?” He swallowed thickly, his mouth grimaced. 

Not today, not tomorrow. Maybe not at all or weeks from now if Pratt didn't improve. He flipped the knife in his hand and rested the spine against Pratt's collarbone where the bone connected to the sternum. The man didn't flinch, kept staring off into the distance, between the trees. Another look he recognized; the attempt to find something of meaning. 

“There's nothing else out there for you,” Jacob slid the knife along that delicate, exposed line. “Your new life is here. I have to make you strong.” 

He finished up in silence, adjusting Pratt's positions like he was clay in his hands. He stared through him the entire time. He tilted his head down and carefully trimmed the unruly hairs around the back of his neck. Rubbed his fingers against his scalp, felt the familiar grit of sand mixed with oil and dried blood. Pratt didn't pull away, just breathed slow and steady, taking in the scent of the forest. 

“There's still time to learn about this world.” Jacob placed the knife back into the sheath where it weighed comfortably against his thigh. “You'll be a better man when I'm done with you.”

He pulled up his chair and sat off to Pratt's side, close enough that he could see the neat edges of his work. Pratt didn't turn to nervously judge the space between them. He kept his eyes locked ahead, focused on the horizon broken up by the branches. Don't look back, keep going, swallow it down. Like a good soldier. 

Gunfire burst in the distance. He ignored it and focused on the sound of birds.


End file.
